


His Banner Over Me

by pineapplecrushface



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anal Sex, Angel/Demon Sex, First Kiss, First Time, Intense Wrist Kissing, M/M, Praise Kink, handjobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2019-06-21
Packaged: 2020-05-16 04:38:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19310776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pineapplecrushface/pseuds/pineapplecrushface
Summary: Three of Aziraphale's excellent ideas, and how Crowley (very casually) obliges him, as a friend does.





	His Banner Over Me

SIX YEARS AND TWO WEEKS AGO

It all started with City of Angels, a movie so thoroughly despised by both angels and demons that neither of them had ever wanted to watch it, although Aziraphale absolutely loved Meg Ryan. Loved her. Couldn’t get enough of her. Crowley was less effusive, but he had also seen When Harry Met Sally enough times to be able to recite whole passages whenever he watched it while drunk and maudlin, which was every time. However, he did occasionally feel the urge to tell Aziraphale, when he was sighing happily at the end of You’ve Got Mail, that if he liked Meg Ryan so much he ought to marry her.

Which sort of seemed to be the theme of the movie, actually.

Having a night in together was a new thing for the two of them. They weren’t either of them the type to stay home, or at least they hadn’t been before the beginning of the end of the world. After the first few years of watching over Warlock, however, they had gotten into the habit of finding a comedy like The Exorcist and making an evening of it. Crowley had never used the room in his flat that seemed to be intended for entertainment, really, so when Aziraphale wanted a night in, it was easy enough to say, “Let’s watch something at mine, your place is like a Baroque landfill,” and then they’d be tucked in with wine and brie en croute on the sofa he had conjured up, which was soft and comfortable and not at all Crowley’s usual thing—his very soft and very comfortable bed notwithstanding— and seemed to tip the two of them closer together than he had ever intended.

“No wonder everyone hates this movie,” Crowley said after forty-five minutes of watching in silence apart from the occasional scoffing noise. “They dress like me and act like you, and there’s not a single evil wile to be found.”

“There would certainly be several wiles. It’s Los Angeles,” Aziraphale agreed. “But.”

“But?”

“I love it.” Aziraphale gave him that look only Aziraphale could give, the one that said he knew what he was saying was ridiculous and he didn’t care, only he did care a little and could Crowley not tease him about it?

“It was the oysters that got you, wasn’t it,” Crowley said.

“Well, yes,” Aziraphale. “And the library. Do you hate it? We can turn it off.”

“No,” Crowley said. “Let’s. You know. Let’s see it to the end. Can’t be that bad.”

“I can watch it alone later, if you don’t like it.”

“I _said_ let’s watch it,” Crowley said, scowling, and started it up again with a snap of his fingers.

When the film was finished, Aziraphale opened and closed his mouth several times before he finally said, “I don’t see why that was necessary.”

Aziraphale did not enjoy unhappy endings. If pressed, Crowley might have admitted he didn’t either, but thankfully, no one had ever pressed.

“Well, at least he got to experience some of the mortal sins for a night,” Crowley said, reaching for the Argentinian Malbec Aziraphale had brought to sustain them.  

“It does seem a shame,” Aziraphale said. “I’ve had this body for ages and ages and I’ve enjoyed a lot of things, but not that.”

“Not what?” Crowley asked, only half paying attention. The rest of him was wondering why he had had to see Dennis Franz’s naked bottom not just once, but twice.

“Sex.”

Crowley twisted to look at him so fast he nearly slithered off the sofa. It wasn’t the word so much as the entirely casual way Aziraphale said it, like it wasn’t the centre of almost all the universe’s most acrimonious arguments.

“Why would you want to?” he asked. “I mean, I understand why _they_ do, but why would we?”

“Because it feels good,” Aziraphale. “Doesn’t it?”

“Suppose, yeah,” Crowley said, sipping with a bit more care. He wanted to be marginally sober for this conversation. “That’s why it’s one of the big ones.”

“Well, there you have it. I like things that feel good,” Aziraphale said.

“Why haven’t you done it before then? It’s not like you haven’t had time.”

“I’ve been _busy_ ,” Aziraphale exclaimed. “And I’m given to understand it’s rather messy. There’s also the problem of finding a partner. Not all of us have Meg Ryan to oblige us.”

Crowley shook his head. “Should be easy enough. You’re a being of love. They’d flock to you if you let them.”

“That doesn’t seem very sporting,” he said. “Would it really be of their free will?”

“I’ve seen far too many people staring at your arse over the years to think it wouldn’t be.” Crowley sat there for a moment, arm stretched along the back of the sofa, minding his own business and really enjoying the Malbec, when out of nowhere his mouth opened again. “You could try it with me.”

Aziraphale gave him a concerned look, blinking fast. “I wouldn’t want to put you to the trouble.”

“It’s no trouble,” he said. “Or, well, it is, but that’s my specialty, isn’t it.”

When he was able to actually raise his eyes to gauge Aziraphale’s reaction, he was surprised to see him tilting his head thoughtfully, as if he were making considerations. Crowley shivered and shifted around, trying to look as casual as he truly was inside.

“You don’t have to,” he said. “Just a thought.”

“No, it’s a good thought,” Aziraphale said.

“Dunno if you even have a, you know.” Crowley gestured vaguely between his legs. “Anything.”

Aziraphale brightened. “Oh yes, a cock. It was de rigueur at the beginning, if you’ll remember, although I rather imagine things have changed since then. Anyway, I got used to it.”

“I remember,” Crowley said. He supposed he’d got used to it too, though he’d tried out a few other configurations over the centuries. He didn’t think about it much, if he had to be honest. It was one of those human interests that he’d never really picked up, sex. Easy enough to ignore, unless you had an angel you were occasionally rather silly over sitting beside you, talking about his cock.

“Is that a problem?” Aziraphale asked.

He shook his head. Casually. “Do you want me to?” he asked, also casually.

“I suppose,” Aziraphale said, his face doing something complicated—something like hunger, which Crowley recognized, but also like he was facing a firing squad, which Crowley also recognized.

“All right then,” Crowley said. He took off his sunglasses and set them on the table beside his drink, and considered. They didn’t touch often. It was deliberate at first. He had assumed they would burn each other, at the very least, each of them a concentrated form of the matter that could destroy the other. But over the years there had been a few situations in which he couldn’t help putting a hand on Aziraphale’s back to guide him, on his wrist to stop him, on his arm to calm him, and the touch was far from disastrous. Once, in Spain many years before, Aziraphale had stroked his shoulder and in an instant he’d gone from drinking like a madman to crying like anything and pretending he wasn’t crying like anything, but otherwise Aziraphale was even less given to public or private displays of affection than he was.

That didn’t mean Crowley hadn’t thought about it, though.

His thoughts, which he didn’t allow himself very often because thankfully he was a very busy demon with important jobs to do, usually centered around one thing: Aziraphale might, if he took a notion to do so, grab Crowley’s hand and kiss the back of it in a courtly fashion, and then simply continue kissing. The inside of his wrist was a sensitive area and he could only imagine what he might do if Aziraphale pressed his lips there—but that was when he always caught himself and shook his hand as if he really had been burnt.

“All right, then,” he said again, but it was more to steady himself than anything else, because Aziraphale was watching him with that firing squad look, the one that said he was ready for whatever fate befell him.  

Crowley flexed his fingers a few times—because, he reasoned, if he was only going to get to do this once, he wasn’t going to ruin it by shaking all over—and put his hand on the side of Aziraphale’s face. Aziraphale destroyed his resolve immediately by closing his eyes and turning to kiss Crowley’s palm and then his thumb. It was so close to his most secret thoughts that he almost pulled away, but Aziraphale held him there and carefully kissed the inside of his wrist, and he made a lost, wild sound and nearly climbed into his lap right then and there. He stopped himself at the last moment but did move close enough to rest his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder and touch his lips to his neck in something that was not quite a kiss but was also more reverent than any gesture he had ever made.

“Tell me,” he whispered, his hand on Aziraphale’s thigh and sliding upward.

“Tell you what?” Aziraphale’s breath was gratifyingly shaky.

“If it’s good. If I’m doing it the way you like it.” His fingers had reached the thick, stiff length of Aziraphale’s cock and he began to unbutton his fly slowly, giving him plenty of time for objections. The thought of Aziraphale telling him the way he liked it caught in his head and stuck. What if…well, what if Aziraphale were to instruct him just so? What would Crowley do then, other than exactly what Aziraphale told him to do?

“I know it will be good,” Aziraphale said, not objecting at all even as Crowley slid his hand into his shorts—linen, of course it was bloody linen. “How could it be otherwise when you’ve such lovely hands?”

Crowley had expected him to say it would be good because he was a demon and knew how to tempt, but this…whatever it was, this _admiration_ that would be gentle but for the way his voice had gone low and confessional, it stunned him. He turned his face into Aziraphale’s neck and moaned, going hot all over, and touching his cock made it so much worse. His skin tingled just at the sensation of fitting his hand around it, and then Aziraphale’s shuddering gasp made him writhe where he sat. Aziraphale rested his cheek against Crowley’s, the fingers of his right hand first merely touching Crowley’s side and then clenching tight in his shirt as he began to move his hand.

After a moment Crowley got hold of himself—barely—and had the presence of mind to get his hand slick, and that was when Aziraphale clung to Crowley, turning so they were facing each other.

“I was right,” he whispered against Crowley’s ear. “Your hands are brilliant. I knew it would be good.”

It was too much; Crowley looked down and could barely handle the sight of his slick fingers on Aziraphale’s cock, heavy and hard, pulsing as he stroked tighter and faster. It was lovely because it was Aziraphale and lovely because Aziraphale liked it, although it would be loveliest of all if he could kiss him—but no, that was something he couldn’t have. He bit his own lips to stop himself from even imagining it.

Aziraphale’s hand, he realized, had moved toward his thigh.

“May I?” he asked.

“Anything,” Crowley gasped. “Anything you want, Angel, it’s yours.”

The moment he said it Aziraphale’s hand greedily slid up the length of his cock, thumb pressing right under the head as if he’d given it a great deal of thought and knew exactly what to do. “Oh, perfect,” he said breathlessly. “This is exactly what I wanted.”

The noise Crowley made was a cross between whimpering and sobbing—he wanted to say it wasn’t, but it was an undeniable fact, and he thought he might as well accept that he was losing the very little control he had over the situation even as he knew, from the way his breath was speeding up and his body was tightening, that Aziraphale was getting close. So was he; Aziraphale’s thumb slid in short circles that spread pleasure everywhere in a way he had never felt before and he was so, so close—

“Aziraphale, _oh_ ,” he choked out, rubbing his face against Aziraphale’s shoulder and trying to get closer to him. “Tell me, tell me.”

“You’re good,” Aziraphale said fiercely, as if he knew exactly what Crowley wanted him to say. “It’s—oh, it’s very, very good, you’re _so_ good.”

And Crowley was done in, rocking madly into Aziraphale’s grip and trying in vain to muffle his desperate cries in his shoulder. Dimly, he knew Aziraphale still needed his attention and he pushed past the overwhelming relief of his pleasure—which was quite frankly alarming; he didn’t have a lot of experience with this kind of thing, but when he’d done it on his own it had not felt this good—to give it to him. He didn’t want to lose out on a single moment, and very much intended to commit the entire thing memory: Aziraphale's sharp breath, his fingers yanking on Crowley’s shirt, the way he pushed his cock into Crowley’s hand like he _needed_ it before he went still for a tight, tense moment and then came all over his fingers in quick, hard spurts. Crowley felt a sweet, joyful wave of pleasure roll over him again as he watched, sharper and brighter than before, and let himself fold into it, into the shield of Aziraphale’s body.

“Oh my goodness,” Aziraphale gasped, shivering against Crowley, who had barely recovered his senses and was still slumped onto him and panting open-mouthed, almost certainly dampening his shirt.

They sat that way for quite a while—long enough that Crowley was almost asleep, because Aziraphale was warm and he liked being right in this particular spot, with his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder, very much—and then Aziraphale sat up, shaking himself off.

“Well,” he said, and with a neat brush of his hands, they were both clean and fully buttoned once more.

“Well,” Crowley said, reaching for his sunglasses.

“That’s—thank you,” Aziraphale said, patting his hand. “Good—good night.”

And he was gone without even an attempt to take the remaining food with him, which he had never done once in the 6,000 years Crowley had known him.

* * *

 

SIX YEARS, ONE WEEK, AND SIX DAYS AGO

Begonias, he thought. Aziraphale would like begonias. He did like roses and baby’s breath and all manner of ridiculous other flowers, but begonias were what reminded Crowley of Aziraphale most: hearty, enthusiastic, homey, cheery little things that smelled of sunshine. He’d got three pots of them and glared hard enough on the way to the bookshop to make the one that was looking a little peaky stand up straight.

“Yeah,” he said with a contemplative sneer. “I can see I’m going to have to keep an eye on you.”

The chocolates were cherry cordial as always, and not the kind with the gooey cordial. Aziraphale liked the liquid ones, and Crowley liked watching him like them.

The shop was closed, of course, but Aziraphale was visible through the glass. There was a gentleman lurking about and rapping on the window, trying to get his attention.

“Closed,” Crowley said, pointing to the sign with his elbow.

“But it’s ten in the morning,” the man said. “I can see the proprietor right there.”

“It’s _closed_ ,” he said, and went inside.

He set the flowers on top of a stack of old scheduling sheets and the chocolate on a nearby shelf, and wandered back toward Aziraphale’s desk-ish area. Aziraphale sat with his glasses perched on the edge of his nose, a cup of tea beside him in peril at all times from both elbows and stacks of books. Taxes, Crowley thought, leaning against a table and watching him. Or writing letters to his favourite authors, perhaps. Whatever it was, he was absorbed, and Crowley liked to watch him when he was absorbed. It took several moments before he lifted his head and started.

“Oh, Crowley,” he said, open and eager before he seemed to think better of it and his smile turned tremulous. “I…I wanted to talk to you.”

“Did you,” Crowley said.

“Well, yes. I wanted to apologize for yesterday,” he said. “For the whole night, really, but particularly for leaving so abruptly. It wasn’t…it wasn’t really polite, I suppose.”

Crowley leaned in, grinning. “You’re forgiven,” he said. But the sudden, agonized look on Aziraphale’s face said he was anxious over more than just etiquette.

“I think—and correct me if I’m wrong, but I think you’d agree—that we should consider last night to be something of an aberration,” Aziraphale said, turning back to his work but not looking at it. He stared at the wall instead. “We drank a bit too much and got carried away. These things happen, don’t they?”

Crowley twisted his fingers and the begonias turned to ash behind him. The chocolate, however, he decided he would leave in the shop. There was no chance Aziraphale would find it, and he was sure there were some mice around who would appreciate a good cherry cordial or forty. Diabetic mice, that was a good plague, he mused. Something to think about.

“Yes, they do,” he said. “Happen all the time.”

That earned him a full, grateful look from Aziraphale. “Oh, thank you,” he said. “I did hope we could just put it behind us and go back to normal. We’ve far too much to worry about without letting some human nonsense make us awkward.”

“Eh,” Crowley said with a shrug. It was quite the most casual shrug he’d ever achieved, and here he was with Aziraphale too distracted to even appreciate it.

“Here’s the thing,” Aziraphale said, picking up his pen and tapping what he had been working on. “We’re coming up on the young Anti-Christ’s fifth birthday.”

“In about two weeks, yeah.”

“I think it’s high time we started on his real education, don’t you think?”

He stared up at the lovely, high, dusty ceiling of the shop and went over what he could remember of the schedule. “I think protocol indicates he’s to be sent a demonic educator of some kind this year.”

Aziraphale nodded. “A nanny,” he said.

“Oh, smart,” Crowley said. “Suppose that’s got to be me then. Can’t trust anyone else with it, especially not the Satanists.”

“Ugh,” Aziraphale said, making a face. “They’re always so naked. Whoever said evil had to be naked?”

“Not this lot,” he said. “Just talkative, and _kind_.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said with a worried little frown. “Perhaps it would be better if you sent one of them to him in my stead?”

“No, no,” Crowley said hastily. “They’d be whispering in his ear all day about following in his father’s footsteps. It really should be you.”

“Oh good. I have a plan, you see,” Aziraphale said, and turned to lean toward Crowley, wiggling with glee. “I’m going to play a wise old gardener. The entire gardening staff has just miraculously up and quit.”

“Do you know anything about gardening?” Crowley asked.

“Well, it can’t be that hard,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley realized he was going to be spending the next several years doing landscaping on top of his other work so Aziraphale wouldn’t be sacked every other week.

* * *

 

PRESENT DAY

Wandering back to Aziraphale’s shop after a nice meal felt like old times again. Old times, he realized, that weren’t even really that old. It was only a month or two since they had done this very thing. It was all going to settle back into the way it was Before, and with some exceptions, Crowley had really, really liked the way it was Before. Perhaps it was the bottle of 1907 Heidsieck Gout Americain they had been saving for a very special occasion—a vintage singularly known for surviving great disasters—but Crowley felt like he was glowing with nostalgic pleasure.

“Things are changing, don’t you think?” Aziraphale asked when they had got into the shop just ahead of a little burst of warm rain that made the world smell for a moment like the beginning again.

“Are they?” he asked, looking out the windows with his arms crossed over his chest. “Seems to me things are the same as they ever were.”

The wind had picked up outside and tossed around a few leaves, and he realized that although it wasn’t quite the end of summer, it was the exact moment of the year when it suddenly struck you that summer _could_ end, that summer _would_ end, and that autumn would be there in no time at all. Still, he thought, while that moment caught you by surprise every single time, it wasn’t new. The trees would sleep and they would wake again, and next August he’d have that same thought: _Oh, it’s almost over_. That was the beauty of knowing it would all carry on, wasn’t it?

“No, I don’t think they can stay the same,” Aziraphale said, standing beside him to look out at the street.

“No?” he asked.

“It occurred to me last night, as you were sleeping, that I’m in an interesting place now,” Aziraphale said. His hands were folded neatly behind his back, within arm’s reach and yet so far away that Crowley was suddenly bereft. It seemed to be a moment that teetered on an important decision he had no control over; he was going to lose Aziraphale, he suddenly knew. Lose him for good, in a way that would hurt worse than any other because Aziraphale, now released from all his burdens, would choose to leave him.

“What’s that then?” Crowley asked, reaching for the bottle.

“I’m finally free, or almost free, to feel and show my love as I please,” Aziraphale said. He gave Crowley a little side glance that Crowley could barely read, but there was an awkward twist to his face that said Crowley had better pay attention because this was probably about him.

“Aren’t you always showing love, though?”

“In a general way, yes, of course,” Aziraphale said, “but I do have preferences, you know, and I’m not supposed to. Wasn’t supposed to. But I do, and I can’t help but think that if we were meant to learn anything from this entire experience, it’s that love is what saves us. Quite literally. My love for you is what saved me.”

“You _what_ ,” Crowley said, sitting down on the floor. There was a chair nearby, but it had a cat on it that Crowley was fairly sure hadn’t been there Before. He had been here, sitting on the floor of the bookshop, only the previous day, and felt much the same way: absolutely ruined.

“And then I got thinking, you know. I’ve loved you for so long,” Aziraphale said, continuing in a shaky voice as though Crowley hadn’t said anything. “I denied it and denied it because I wasn’t supposed to love you, and it’s never done me any good. So if it’s all right with you, I’m going to love you now.”

“I—er, uh?” Crowley said. 

Aziraphale turned from the window and moved toward him, picking up half a dozen items and then setting them down again before he stood directly in front of Crowley. “Will it bother you?” he asked. “I know you’re always uncomfortable being appreciated for doing nice things, but I don’t know how you feel about being loved. Or rather, how you feel about me saying it. It’s been quite obvious for a long time now, I’m afraid, but you were always good enough to ignore it.”

Crowley stared up at him, feeling thick as a fucking brick. “Aziraphale,” he said. “What is happening here?”

“I’m asking your permission,” Aziraphale said.

“To love me?” His voice cracked. “Why would you do a thing like that?”

Aziraphale’s expression darkened. “I’m sure I don’t know,” he said, and turned away, but Crowley scrambled to his knees and caught his hand.

“No,” he said. “It’s only…you don’t need permission. I don’t—I don’t.”

Unable to speak, he brought Aziraphale’s hand to his cheek and pressed it there, palm against skin, pleading without words for him to understand. Aziraphale softened visibly and gestured for him to take off his sunglasses, and once he had done so Crowley sat shivering under his regard while Aziraphale stroked the side of his face. He closed his eyes and basked in it, as close to the light of heaven as his soul would ever get, and yet more wonderful than heaven’s light could ever be because it was Aziraphale.

“My dearest,” Aziraphale said, and everything in him reached out, desperate to be touched by the love in just those two words. “May I?”

He wanted to say that Aziraphale could do anything he wanted for all eternity, but could only nod. He expected Aziraphale to pull him to his feet, but instead he knelt in front of him, cupped the back of his head, and kissed him, a long, sweet kiss that put Crowley in mind of ambrosia. He was trembling by the end of it, unsure what to do or where to put his hands when Aziraphale pulled him close.

“It’s all right,” he whispered. “It’s only the two of us, like always.”

He nodded, and Aziraphale kissed him again until he couldn’t think of anything but his warm mouth, the hands gently leading him down onto the soft, thick blankets that were suddenly spread on the floor of the shop. He raised an eyebrow at Aziraphale.

“Make haste,” he said.

“Yes, well, it’s hardly a mountain of spices,” Aziraphale said. “But I won’t have you getting uncomfortable.”

He stroked the side of Crowley’s face before he kissed him again, and Crowley shivered from head to toe in a flurry of excitement. His mouth—Crowley had never felt anything so lovely. It should be decadent, this, but it was beyond all that, beyond right or wrong or sin or grace.

After a time, his hands touched smooth skin and he pulled away, realizing they were both naked.

“Oh, I wanted to undress you,” he said. “All those buttons.”

“Really?” Aziraphale asked with a pleased little smile.

“ _Really_ ,” he said.

“Well, any other time you may dress and undress me at your leisure,” Aziraphale said, and pushed him back. “But right now I’d really like to get my mouth on you.”

He kissed Crowley’s neck and began to work his way downward, while Crowley tried and failed to catch up.

“ _I_ go too fast, you said,” he mumbled.

“What was that?” Aziraphale asked, fingers smoothing over Crowley’s stomach, not quite touching his cock.

“Nothing whatsoever,” he said.

“Your cock is so lovely,” Aziraphale said. His lips were so close to it, wet and swollen from kissing. “I’ve wanted to see it for ages, you know, since that time on the sofa. I wanted it, I wanted to know how you tasted.”

Crowley arched, his hips rocking up like mad, unable to respond with anything resembling human words. His fingers were clenched tight in the blankets and he finally found his voice to say, “Please. Aziraphale.”

The look Aziraphale gave him was so soft Crowley had to turn away for a moment, but he couldn’t stop himself looking back.

“Of course,” he said, and licked once, twice, hot against him, before he began to suck. It was too much almost immediately, and Crowley gave himself over to it without hesitating. But Aziraphale was already sliding up again with his hands spreading Crowley’s thighs in a way that stunned him into lust so heavy he was rendered absolutely brainless for a full ten seconds, eyes rolling back in his head.

“Would you like it?” Aziraphale asked. “If I were inside you?”

“Uh?” Crowley said, still only nominally back online, but he thought he got his point across.

“Oh, good,” Aziraphale said, kissing the insides of his thighs again and again. “I’ve wanted to do this for so long, my darling. You’ve no idea, you really haven’t.”

And almost before Crowley had any idea what was even happening, Aziraphale was spreading him open with two slick fingers and he was pushing down onto them as fast as he could because it felt so good he was rather indignant. How in the hell had he been around roughly forever and not known something could feel like this? The fingers inside him pressed just exactly right in a place he had known vaguely existed but hadn’t understood, and it was like a continual, brilliant stroke along his cock. “ _Aziraphale_ ,” he said, outraged, hooking his leg around Aziraphale’s hip to pull him closer.

“I know,” Aziraphale said, his hands gentle and deliberate. “I want to do _everything_ to you.”

“You’d better do everything pretty quickly,” he said, voice breaking, “because if you keep doing that, I'm done for.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Aziraphale said wonderingly. He drew away but kept a hand on Crowley’s hip, urging him up to his hands and knees.

“You want it—” Crowley asked, and the image of Aziraphale behind him, snapping his hips and driving his cock into him again and again, left him temporarily speechless.

“No, I—when I imagined it,” Aziraphale said, turning very, very red. “I always imagined it like this.”

He sat back and gestured for Crowley to climb into his lap. “You imagined it?” Crowley asked, obeying him with a strange and delightful shiver.

“Oh, all the _time_ ,” Aziraphale said in a breathless rush. “It was awful. I don’t know how I got anything done for the last decade, I really don’t.”

Crowley had something to say about that, but he was rather caught up in getting Aziraphale inside him, and then there was nothing else in the world that mattered except the tight, thick pressure that sent little waves of hot pleasure through him every time he moved, and Aziraphale guiding him.

If he had to be accurate about it, he started to come the second he slid onto Aziraphale, but it lasted for such a long time he could have lied a bit about the numbers, if he had to. “Aziraphale,” he gasped with every other uneven, wild breath, pushing down onto his cock in a mindless rhythm and coming everywhere, too excited to maintain any inhibition at all. He couldn’t stop saying it even when he felt Aziraphale’s arm tighten against his lower back, bringing him down even faster and harder, although the hand on the back of his neck remained gentle.

“Oh, my love,” Aziraphale said in a tight, choked voice, rising with pleasure. Crowley lifted his head with difficulty to see that Aziraphale looked almost pained—it was almost his true face, a face of absolute love, Crowley realized, and rested his forehead on Aziraphale’s as he came. It echoed through them both, the shock of ecstatic release, and Crowley remembered that bright, beautiful feeling that had enveloped him the first time. They shared it, he knew now, shared everything between the two of them, always seeking to draw back together into the single being they had once been.

Later that evening, when he was tucked comfortably into a bed that he had—quite reasonably, he thought—requested Aziraphale move from the ground floor of the shop to someplace more private, like a bedroom, he thought about plans, and questions, and things that were meant to be. Somewhere in all that ineffability, there lay an angel and a demon in a bed together, tangled up higgledy-piggledy, one of them drinking the rest of the disaster champagne and the other eating crackers and saying things like higgledy-piggledy. For an unforgivable being, he felt remarkably forgiven. But that was the trick to thinking about plans, and questions, and things that were meant to be: it only ever made sense in hindsight, if at all, and so you just pushed on and hoped for one single certain thing through all of it, a light to guide the way.

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale said. “Do you know I still don’t know where I sent that American soldier person?”

“Ah,” Crowley said. “He ended up at an amazing party in Mykonos. It’s all settled. I took care of it.”

“Thank you, my dear,” Aziraphale said. “That was…not unkind of you.”

“Yes, well, I have my moments,” he said, and let Aziraphale radiate contentment at him while meteorology offices around the world attempted to explain the brightest aurora event recorded in human history.

**Author's Note:**

> I can usually be found on tumblr [here](https://pineapplecrushface.tumblr.com/).


End file.
